


ein hoch auf das, was vor uns liegt

by brampersandon



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 07:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13653855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: They've long since returned home by the time he watches Müller bang in the first goal against Brazil. What comes next is nothing short of shocking, but despite it all, that's what sticks with Niko: The first few drops of rain before the deluge, the unexpected start to something chaotic and incredible.He watches that goal back again in the coming days, over and over. Every time, he's awed anew. The momentum of the game sparks from him, spit of a thing that he is — all of it from seemingly nothing at all.





	ein hoch auf das, was vor uns liegt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).



> happy chocobox, ireny. thanks for forcing my hand!!
> 
> title comes from _auf uns_ by andreas bourani — which is ireny's fault, much like everything else that follows.

Every time he finds himself thinking _I could have been something_ , Niko reminds himself that not only is that a terribly gauche thought, but he already _is_ something. Maybe not the kind of something that scores magisterial goals to win the league, not the kind that lofts a World Cup high, not even the kind that can kiss a bronze medal like it were gold, but— he's something. 

There are different levels of glory to grasp for, and there aren't tangible effects from the smaller, quieter victories. Getting his team to Brazil at all, that's something. Something more than they had going for them before.

They've long since returned home by the time he watches Müller bang in the first goal against Brazil. What comes next is nothing short of shocking, but despite it all, that's what sticks with Niko: The first few drops of rain before the deluge, the unexpected start to something chaotic and incredible. 

He watches that goal back again in the coming days, over and over. Every time, he's awed anew. The momentum of the game sparks from him, spit of a thing that he is — all of it from seemingly nothing at all.

 

 

 

 

Players like that don't make headlines. Moments like that don't win trophies all on their own. 

Niko knows, and by all means he should think logically when he casts his vote. He should consider if the man is really _the best_. Maybe not, Niko thinks, not objectively anyway, but he's certainly something. Something more interesting.

Nothing will come of it. He knows that too. He puts Müller down as his first choice for the Ballon d'Or anyway.

 

 

 

 

Niko spends more time dreaming than a man his age should. He's painfully aware; Robert tells him often enough how ridiculous he is with his head in the clouds. 

("Never let anyone tell you you've lost your idealistic streak," Robert snorts days after the title goes to Ronaldo, scrolling through the voters' results on his phone. "You really thought any of them would win?"

"No," Niko shrugs. "But that wasn't the point.")

Some nights, he turns over the one medal he still keeps out in his hands. He may have tallied more cards than goals with Bayern, but— some small piece of their story is his. Maybe again, one day. Maybe he could try leading them to victory from the other side of the pitch. It's a fine dream, it keeps him warm.

 

 

 

 

He's not stupid. His only crime is being gullible enough to fall for the way Croatia takes him in, smooths over old wounds by propping him up as some sort of bright new hope. 

When they let him go, he doesn't really have it in him to be angry — Robert has that covered for him, alternating between raging at an uncaring federation and then at Niko for not seeing the writing on the wall sooner.

Frankfurt come calling, and it's a flood of relief on every level. He hasn't irreparably fucked up. He can move back to Germany. He can take Robert, they can keep trying to spin some sort of gold. Somebody out there still sees a thin thread of promise in him.

 

 

 

 

They go from scraping themselves through relegation playoffs to holding Bayern to a draw at home.

That's something, Niko thinks. That has to be something.

 

 

 

 

Jeers be damned, Heynckes embraces him at the Waldstadion and tells him he's doing well for himself. Niko grins at him, composure cracked only enough for the tips of his ears to go pink, and that could just as easily be blamed on the cold.

It's not empty praise, but it feels a bit like it when they can't manage a victory in front of their own fans. They aren't doing terribly this season by any stretch of the imagination, and as Robert will snipe at him later, only getting drubbed by a single goal from Bayern is _almost_ like winning these days. Still. 

The sting of disappointment persists until Müller catches him by the elbow as he makes his way to the tunnel and tells him, all in one rush of breath, _it was a great match, best he's played against Frankfurt in a while, the defense exhausted him, they seem like they're going to have a good season_ , and then—

"I used to watch you, you know." His grin is lopsided and too wide, eyes alight. "When you were at Bayern, I remember watching you score on— ah, Bochum, right? Wasn't it?" Niko can't think of anything to say in return and only stares, dumbfound, which doesn't deter Müller for even a moment. "Had to have been, it was an away match, I remember watching it after dinner with my dad— anyway. Doesn't matter. Think you'll come back one day?"

Niko blinks up at him, and before he can stop himself from sounding so completely stupid, he blurts out, "Well, I'm always open for charity matches."

Somehow it's a good enough answer. Müller laughs right in his face, nothing unkind about it at all, just genuinely gleeful before he claps him on the shoulder. "Good, then we'll see you, yeah?"

"Yeah," Niko hears himself say, and then he's gone, yelling after one of his teammates as he goes.

 

 

 

 

Despite himself, he keeps thinking about it weeks later — just like Müller's goal, he can't get it out of his head, the first kindlings of a flame that anybody else could overlook.

 

 

 

 

For as symbiotic as their relationship is, every piece of information he _should_ tell Robert right away has to filter through Darijo. It's been that way ever since he showed up at the Maksimir for training camp, saw right through Niko's buttoned up guise and decided, for whatever reason, that he liked him anyway.

They're similar enough that Niko's learned to rely on him first. Before Robert analyzes and pokes holes and offers counter-arguments, there's Darijo, arms perpetually open and waiting for a trust fall.

He finds himself crouched in a hotel stairwell in Stuttgart, clutching his cell phone and staring blankly at the concrete beneath his feet as he breathes, "They want me to coach Bayern."

The silence over the line lasts a touch too long before Darijo exhales through his nose. "Seriously?" Niko imagines the corners of his mouth lifting and eyes creasing. It's been a long time since he last saw Darijo, too long, the sincere warmth in his voice washing over Niko and leaving him feeling vaguely ill. "That's great," he laughs, but Niko cuts him off before he can continue.

"We're twenty fucking points below them in the table and they want _me_ to coach there. That's not great, that's ridiculous."

"And? So what? Who cares?" He scuffs his shoe back and forth along the edge of a step, doesn't offer up a rebuttal. Only waits for Darijo to tell him what he already knows but still needs to hear. " _Dragi_ , they see potential in you. They know you can be great— I mean, you already _are_. Everyone knows it. Come on. You're not going to turn them down, are you?"

He thinks of what it felt like to win the league, the cup. It only happened for him once, and now they have so many players who outnumber his accolades three or four times over— he thinks of tanking the team, of another inglorious exit, but. He also thinks of the overwhelming swell of pride in his chest that comes with seeing his side through to victory. 

"No," he admits, just as much to himself as to Darijo. "I'm not turning it down."

 

 

 

 

He'll miss Frankfurt. He will. 

But he watches Bayern cruise their way through to the Champions League semi-finals, and he finds himself thinking, _that. I want to help them be something. I want that_.

 

 

 

 

With only a small handful of games left, they've already announced his move to Munich slated for the summer, and it's the busiest Niko's ever been with the press. He tells them, again and again until he's sick of saying it, he's looking forward to the new challenge but his mind is only on Frankfurt until the end of the season. It's entirely truthful, and when he's far from Munich it's easy enough to keep his head down and stay focused, but the true scope of it doesn't hit him until he sets foot in the Allianz.

It isn't the stadium he remembers, not physically, but there's something there— some spirit that still makes it feel a bit like coming home.

The raucous red-and-blue crowd swells around them as the players take the pitch, and for as much as he's tried to keep his head on his shoulders lately, Niko allows himself one moment to close his eyes and dream that it's for him. It was, once. It will be again.

 

 

 

 

They don't win. They don't lose, either. It's a well-fought draw, one they can be proud of, and that's definitely something, Niko thinks. 

Müller makes a beeline for him again, fiddling with the armband around his bicep and grinning like a maniac. "Kovač," he calls out as he jogs over to the touchline, "Hey! Kovač! Hold on a minute!"

Robert's already gone to the locker room for a word with Rebić about yet another reckless challenge, but Niko still looks askance, like he isn't the one Müller's locked onto. "You can call me Niko," he says when the man stops just short of him, Haller's jersey draped over his shoulders. "There's two of us, it'll get confusing."

"Niko," he says, almost singsong, then holds out his hand for a shake. "Thomas."

"We've met." Niko's smile is tight, but he shakes anyway.

It doesn't make a bit of sense, but something about him is magnetic, some sort of charisma Niko can't say he ever possessed himself — and one he rarely saw in others. It's why Thomas gets away with an affable shrug as he says, "I know, I'm the one who convinced you to come coach us, right?" He spreads his arms wide. "I'm very persuasive. You can admit it! I won't even take a cut of your salary."

He's completely, thoroughly ridiculous, and before Niko knows it, he's laughing. It reverberates in Thomas, loud and joyous. He lets Thomas grab his hand again, pull him in for a strange sort of half-hug as the few remaining cameramen snap away.

It rushes through Niko like chain lightning, a brief and blinding moment of certainty where he wants to tell Thomas, _you're joking but you're right, actually, you're more important than you know, you're the fulcrum I'll shape this team around_. But he has his dignity. He keeps it to himself. He lets his hand linger on Thomas' bare shoulder for a few seconds longer, his only indulgence, and then it's goodbye, it's good luck, it's _see you soon_.

**Author's Note:**

> \- "what on earth was this, caitlin" WELL, AS THE STORY GOES, we all mandela effect'd ourselves into a reality where niko voted thomas for ballon d'or and it was only after i wrote this that we found out...... he did not. but we had already spiraled into hell over it and i wasn't about to change anything, so. welcome to the au where niko voted for thomas! many thanks to @ascience for [making our collective delusion a reality](https://i.imgur.com/n4YbnRf.png) so that i could feel slightly less insane.
> 
> \- A Brief And Tragic History Of Niko Kovač: missed out on going to the 1998 world cup with croatia because he was injured, thus wasn't part of the greatest squad the nation's ever had that took bronze that year. captained the team through the heartbreak of euro 2008, tried to retire immediately after, got coerced into staying on until 2009. came back to coach in 2013, shaped up a struggling team and got them back to the world cup, got fired a couple years later despite being better than anyone who came before (or has come since). spent his entire career in germany/austria but always loved croatia the most — it's just that croatia never fully loved him back.
> 
> \- niko's younger brother robert played alongside him at bayern (and leverkusen, and obviously vatreni) and, TRUTH BE TOLD, always was the more consistent and successful kovač brother. he's also been his assistant since niko started managing.
> 
> \- YES I AM AWARE THEY'RE DOWNPLAYING TALK OF HIM MANAGING BAYERN NEXT SEASON but like, let us dream. 
> 
> \- [gurgles incoherently](http://irenydraws.tumblr.com/post/167640610213/rolls-in-very-anonymously-what-if-you)
> 
> \- apologies for everything, i absolutely do not go here, i just have terrible friends who encourage terrible things. thank you for reading. ♥ you can follow me on [tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com) if you'd like, although thomas posts are sequestered to my likes because #finoallafine


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